


Insult to Injury

by xwincesterx



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 02:48:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1412155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xwincesterx/pseuds/xwincesterx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TAG to Road Trip. Sam's POV, because it's the time he spent in that dark corner of the recesses of his own mind, where Gadreel had locked him away in a dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insult to Injury

So things have been...different since we left that church. Since Dean dragged my weak, sorry ass back to the bunker and forced me into bed. Into Dean's bed. It would've been weird if I'd had any idea what the hell was going on with anything, at that moment. But I didn't. I had no idea, because everything was foggy and blurry and spinning. Everything hurt and everything was numb, and the idea that they could be both things at the same time, had thrown me into an equally painful state of confusion.

Then Dean came back. He said something about Crowley and the bunker and now I know he was telling me he'd trapped him good and well in the dungeon. But right then, I just needed Dean. It's all I could think about, and it was weird because...well, I hadn't felt like that since I was nine and I had really bad pneumonia and Dad couldn't get us out of the cabin to the hospital. I just wanted Dean. And Dean was there through it all.

Just like now.

Except I don't remember there being so much kissing, then.

I was just lying there curled up on one side, trying subconsciously to leave some room for Dean, only that I was facing the middle of the bed as opposed to the wall. By the time I realized it, it didn't matter because I was too weak to turn myself over, and Dean was there lying in front of me, his arm wrapped around my back and the other propping himself up on his elbow as his hand brushed my hair from my face.

"It's okay, Sammy," he told me, nearly whispering, his mouth so close to my face that I could feel the air that forced the words out. "Everything's gonna be okay. I'm gonna take care of you. You'll be better in no time." I could hear the shaking in his voice. I wanted to tell him that it was okay. I wanted to tell him to stop freaking out. Then I felt his mouth touch my forehead. "I'm so sorry," he said. I could hear wetness in his voice, like he was crying. "You shouldn't have had to do that. I'm such an idiot, Sam. I'm sorry... This should never have happened." Each statement was followed by another kiss. Each kiss was in a different place. My temple. My cheek. My chin. "I love you so much, Sammy. I'm so sorry..." I felt his arm snake under my neck, pillowing my head at a much more comfortable angle, and then his forehead was against mine. I could smell his breath. I could feel his body heat. I could feel him shaking.

Of course. Of course Dean would tell me he loved me while I was too weak to respond the way I would have had he told me when I wasn't lame. But even then, I couldn't be too sure that that's what he'd meant. I did, however, later figure that it was definitely what he meant. A few days later. When the fog finally started lifting.

A few days later when I was suddenly and inexplicably better, and Dean was still taking care of me as if I wasn't able to, myself. I let him. But this time I listened for it.

He was holding me up in the shower, just like he had the day before. I let him, even though I could've probably stood there on my own, then. He always left my boxers on, for the sake of my privacy. Always made me wash myself there because, "I ain't molestin' you without your expressed permission." He would wash me, front and back, and he'd kiss the back of my shoulder now and then, like he didn't even know he was doing it. Murmuring little 'I love yous' quietly. His hands felt so nice on my skin, and I had to thank whatever deity for making me too weak to get hard in my shorts while I didn't have the energy to do anything about it.

But then it was different. Then I got my strength back, and then I could say what I'd wanted to all along.

"You have my permission," I told him that night. I felt his hands suddenly tighten where they'd been holding onto me.

"What?" he asked, surprised to even hear me say that much.

"I said you have my permission," I repeated for him. But he didn't move, and too many seconds ticked by in complete silence, sans the spray of the shower. So I turned around in his arms and met his wide eyes for a moment. He didn't look horrified or anything. Just...maybe like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He didn't back away. He didn't even flinch. And by the time I had decided to take matters into my own hands, he was leaning forward, a hand pulling at the back of my neck to pull me down that fraction of an inch so that he didn't have to stand on his toes.

We kissed long and hard and deep, and he somehow maneuvered me against the shower wall and had the soap in his hands, lathering it up before one hand went straight into my soaking wet boxers and started giving me a thorough cleaning. My head fell back with a smack onto the tiles and Dean was cursing.

"Fuck, Sammy, be careful," he told me, his free hand sliding up into my hair to soothe and cushion my head from hitting it again.

"Dean..."

Maybe it was the fact that I hadn't been with anyone in a long time. Maybe it was because my dream of being with Dean was finally coming true. But when his teeth nipped at the junction where my neck meets my shoulder, I was coming hard, and Dean was shuddering, falling apart as he rocked his hard cock against my hip, and I knew he was coming, too.

So things have been different since the church. Since the falling of the angels. Dean and I, we're together. Like together together, and it's weird that this is where it all started, but I'm not complaining, because Dean is...well, he's never exaggerated when he'd bragged about how good he was in bed. Things were good. Me and Dean...things are so good with us right now, even though the world around us is falling apart. And really, wasn't it always? The world, I mean?

We're not sure what's going on with the angels. In fact, right now we're working on this weird case with ghouls and...well, they're eating dead cheerleaders and I just don't get it. I'm sitting at the table trying to find something, anything in these books that might be able to bring some sense to it. Dean is in the kitchen making us something to eat. I just want to put the books away for a while, forget about this stupid case for just an hour or so, and spend that time putting my hands on as much of Dean's body as I possibly can before the procrastinating gets the best of our conscience.

And then I hear a familiar voice, and my head snaps to find its owner. Crowley...

~End~


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